Deepwood Weald I can do this all for you

Winter is coming, was the whisper ferried within the fickle drafts of wind; at least, what little airy breath could muster up from the tangled depths of this wood. Gnarled and lanky, the passing trunks all had adorned themselves in a virid blanket of moss, which had just begun to tint mustard yellow at the onset of the aching cold. Overhead, an entangled mass of knotted branches had been sewn together from opposing trees to snuff out any flicker of ambient light. Had the trees not been coated in the brilliant warmth of fall, this place could easily have been deemed as eerie. 

All the more surprising to Welkin that she had ended up here, of all places. 

She didn’t quite know what here was called- not yet, but to any foreigner the likeness of this wood could spell disaster. It was the sameness of it all that kindled a kernel of unease in her gut, that fluttered feebly as if a fledgling chick. The mountains had never been like this. There had always been a telltale peak or overarching constellation to serve as a reliable guide. But here? Here there was nothing.

At least, until the telltale murmur of a bubbling creek peeped from behind a batch of reddened ferns. 

Welkin’s ears pinpointed towards the sounds like acute signals, a newfound purpose setting a light jounce within her step. Thickened undergrowth caressed at her flanks like pliant fingertips, sending soft swooshes in her hurried wake. Soon enough the loam became dampened and malleable, indenting softly beneath her insignificant weight. Now clear as a bell, the bubbling liquid presented itself, winding purposefully between gnarled trees. Where the stream wandered, the resulting crevice within the canopy allowed for ample lighting. Now, at least, Welkin had found what would guide her through this wood to the unknown that lay untouched. 

A curmudgeonly sigh burst from her diaphragm. Skepticism pulled her jaw taut, the tension creasing the furrows of her brow. As of late, all that had circled through Welkin’s mind was survival; a concept well-familiar to any animal, but nothing the noble had grappled with so ferociously until now. Everything she had dreamt of, could possibly long for, had been handed to her upon a delicate and silver platter until Hlaorith and Banhar, the cowards that they were, had exchanged their daughter to save their own pitiful hides. An embittered snarl pulled tightly at her lips, her pearly whites flashing atop the undulating current. 

As if to discard the aching thoughts, Welkin swiftly plunged her head beneath the surface of the gentle current, allowing the subtle roar to stake claim upon her mind. Just listen to the water, and nothing else. When at last her lungs burned feverishly for a kernel of air and her last breath distilled in a flurry of bubbles, Welkin retracted from the stream. Her distorted reflection bent and curved atop the unpredictable current, further dispelled by the droplets of liquid that dribbled stubbornly from her dampened ruffles. 

Her thoughts were distilled a second time by the haggard coughing that resounded nearby, sickly and feeble and distinctly wolven.

You should leave. You cannot afford sickness, her mind warned, ensnaring her instincts to turn and depart from the bending steam. 

Just as she swiveled, however, a second disturbing thought swiftly changed her course. 

You’re leaving them just like they left you. Mocking, domineering. 

Exhaling a resigned breath from her blackened nostrils, Welkin’s dirtied talons grappled against the peaty loam, shredding it to smithereens. 

Approaching the canine, the croak of her unused voice rang with prominence above the bubbling water. 

”Hello?”